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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048414">Practice and Practicality</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyPoacher/pseuds/FunkyPoacher'>FunkyPoacher</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Outer Worlds (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Halcyon in the Good Ol' Days, Mutual Pining, Stuck in the Rain, amiable aquaintances to moon-eyed lovers, but it turned into a Jane Austen novel, holding hands for the sake of the Grand Plan, then an Elizabeth Gaskell novel, this was a story about Reed fapping to a sexy resume, world building</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:28:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyPoacher/pseuds/FunkyPoacher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>November, 2345. One month into the new fiscal year, and Edgewater has hit a hiccup. Taking on the burden of additional sultuna production following Terra 1’s Hazard Clause, Reed Tobson’s factory is finally starting to feel the pinch of over-work. Exhausted machinery parts are protesting, and employees are reporting sick in unprecedented numbers. Added to these problems, newcomer Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung is becoming more trouble by the day.</p><p>#workplace injuries just got sexy</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Reed Tobson/OC, Reed Tobson/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Resume</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although the days began with Reed Tobson’s befittments in impeccable form, the evenings found his hat slanting on a sweat-dampened brow. His tie had loosened and lost its companionable clip to the cavernous underside of his desk, while a scruff loomed about his cheek should he have missed his lunch break (and, thus, time to tidy-up).</p><p>Although the days started with Reed Tobson appearing the portrait of prim composure, the evenings offered another picture: that of a superior who had gone elbow-deep into the guts of bureaucracy, just as his lauded employees had so seen the insides of saltuna. It offered the image of a man pouring over managerial minutia, thus providing his staff, and company, the livelihoods they deserved. Attention to detail; forms in triplicate: these exhaustive, rewarding expenditures of time filled his days. Month in, month out, it was the same save a singular detail. Like saltuna down the stream, late September had brought with it an end to the fiscal year.</p><p>Today, October First, Edgewater was given the rebirth of stars. It opened to a fresh page in the various ledgers, looking back upon the last year of passed quotas, and promising an unprecedented season of profit, pride, and fortitude. </p><p>Reed Tobson could not describe the elation leaving him thankful as well as flushed. He wasn’t one to profuse with overly poetic oration—leave that to the folk of Wentworth or Auntie Cleo’s, for he was a Spacer’s Choice man: the brand of economy and frugality. Still, he was hesitating—lengthening the last minutes on the clock—and it was because he wished to consider something.</p><p><em> I’m happy, </em> he thought to himself.</p><p>Fifteen years as Outpost Administrator, and every season was better; brighter. Bolder profits; bigger bonuses. His booming town sprawled before him, having built upon the sturdy bones laid by the previous Administrator. It measured Reed Tobson as a man, this prosperity, and it measured Reed Tobson as a <em> good </em>man.</p><p>Preparing to leave for the evening, his eye was caught by the glossy shine of laminate upon his desk.</p><p>Prudence stoked a quiet curiosity over the stapled and cover-lettered papers. An attached memorandum bearing the penmanship of his secretary informed Reed that this was the <em> “new transfer’s resume and relocation form—arriving Monday—orientation by R. Wilkes”, </em> and, as Reed took it to hand, prudence turned to impassioned excitement.</p><p>From their pharmaceutical concerns, to weaponry houses, as well as a number of mills for foodstuffs found outside the scope of saltuna, Spacer’s Choice factories varied across Halcyon. Depending on the needs of the company, there were often employee relocations for an allotted time-period, all decided upon with dotted lines, signatures, and wage negotiations.</p><p>As such, and suffering the void left by a recently deceased packaging specialist, Reed had expected a replacement. Inspecting the resume, however, he had not expected <em> this</em>. This sublime example of character found in a clear, concise font which displayed such flourish as to be memorable while yet remaining beautifully professional. The diffusion of work-place anecdotes applicable to her future position did not tire the eye; it refreshed Reed’s spirit, these sparse, on-point situations of experience, which would only, undoubtedly, add colour to her conduct.</p><p>In the articulate delivery of her past stations of employ, his new hireling’s intriguing life played out as though the pages in a book of kept minutes. Detailed, informative, Reed found it riveting, and his perfervid nature stirred his blood to a state of deep feeling.</p><p>And it had all started with <em> Employee Name: Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung.  </em></p><p>“Can you believe it?” asked his secretary. “Her name-recognition <em> alone</em>.”</p><p>Reed wondered how long Ashum Petherick had been watching. The Outpost Administrator believed it some time, for his secretary had ridden the elevator to Reed’s otherwise empty office, and neither the young man nor the mechanical workings had been heard. Reed’s spellbound state had silenced the world.</p><p>“It must be some sort of mistake,” he said. Flipping through the packet, he skimmed paragraphs, charmed by glances of skill-sets and aptitudes. He saw <em> Previous Employment: Spacer’s Choice, Entertainment Division</em>. He spotted <em> Previous Residence: Byzantium, Natya Shastra District</em>. “Unless, of course, it’s a jest?”</p><p>His secretary’s head tilted. “Do you know me to jest, sir?”</p><p>Reed smiled. “No, I suppose not, Ashum.” He looked up, away from the allure of the page. Curiosity roughened his tone. “Why <b>are </b>you still here? You should have clocked-out some minutes ago. And I believe you to have business at the Bureau of Adoption and Minor Allocation, do you not.”</p><p>“Dion is waiting downstairs. But I wanted to see—”</p><p>“My reaction?”</p><p>“If you required clarification on any of the documents,” Ashum replied lightly, feigning indignity at his superior’s suggestion.</p><p>Reed chuckled. “On your way. Your prospects for adoption are superior. I’d hate to see that potential spoiled by tardiness.”</p><p>“Thank you, sir. Good evening, sir.”</p><p>A double-income home; off-set work schedules so the child need never be idle: added to that the greatest of dedication to company values, and Ashum and Dion Petherick appeared prime candidates in their bid for adoption. Knowing they had means of taking on the debts incurred by orphans, Reed Tobson had written a strong recommendation in support of his secretary, as well his secretary’s husband, assigned to the docks as a coordinator of imports.</p><p>Not one to jeopardize his reputation on sentiment alone, of course, but Reed would have quietly admit to harbouring some amount of affection for children, too. They were, as a fresh crop awaiting harvest, potential employees newly on the road towards what they were meant to do: nourish the greater good, and sustain the Grand Plan. Infectious was their enthusiasm when the school brought local classes for a tour; they were thrilled by the prospect of contribution, though, naturally, the fair and just labor laws set out by the Board prohibited anything of the like until aptitudes were tested at 14. Still, Reed found them marvelous. Though personally responsible for a stipulated amount of decorum, he certainly did not resent their energies.</p><p>With his secretary off, the man found himself alone with the resume once more. Ashum’s comment, <em> “her name-recognition alone", </em>haunted Reed like a soft and lingering breeze upon which he could hear the hint of song as he clocked-out, making both farewells and for home.</p><p>Within his domicile decorated by administrator-appropriate luxury, he put water to boil for a dinner of Spacer’s Choice Bread Noodles with which he, latterly, baked saltuna fillets (<em>Taste-of-Success Citrus</em>) and Tartarus Sauce (another fine company product).</p><p>Laundry in the wash and repast prepared, he put a record to play upon the standing gramophone. At table with feast before him, Reed took a deep breath as the tune began to play. And he listened to her. He listened to her whose name he had read upon the resume’s page.</p><p>
  <em> Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung.  </em>
</p><p>For a few resplendent years, the woman had been <em> Spacer’s Voice</em>, the official voice of the company. She had appeared in commercials, jingles, and, occasionally, a weekly serial alongside Moon Man, the Spacer’s Choice mascot. Formerly, she had been signed to Universal Defense Logistics, advertising in vids with her chorus troupe alongside Chairman Rockwell, guaranteeing her reputation as a notable luminary.</p><p>When replaced by a younger, fresher songstress, Reed Tobson found this choice the poorer one. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s voice had hints of youth, vitality, poise, and sophistication, but above all there was a kindness which effused their products when it was her crooning of their quality and zeal, promising, with all her heart, that <em> “At Spacer’s Choice, we cut corners so you don’t have to!” </em></p><p>As part of a promotional endeavour, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s performances had been released, and Reed was one of few who still kept the record. No longer current, her voice was out-dated; expired as any product could be. And though he knew it to be true, Reed had never been able to part with it, putting it to play when he wished for companionable sound while completing paperwork or chores. </p><p>Hers was the voice of the Spacer’s Choice family. And, which Reed was cautious to realize, her resume was also an example of peak professionalism and polish: the makings of a good woman.</p><p>Unable to touch his dinner, Reed was strangely sated. Full with optimistic dreams he found inefficient due to hope and presumption, the man realized regardless, and to his chagrin, that he was in love.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Tour of Edgewater's Cannery and the surrounding Town</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patently recognizable, the characteristic Spacer’s Choice colours of golden-yellow and sage-green composed numerous crepe-paper creations. Chains, wreaths; banners: all draped decorously about the town which smelled like fish on a chilling breeze. </p><p>None of her friends would have found complaint, of course. The Byzantium stage bred spirit, and companions Odette and Pearline, tittereing at the quaint charm, would have insisted through the street like a heavily velvet-swaddled pteroray flock, flying towards sea-scented escapades.</p><p>This enterprise, as Margaret knew, was hers alone, however.</p><p>Strolling beside her chaperone, Mrs. Rebecca Wilkes, Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung was drawn to the expressions of embellishment. This day was an occasion—the ‘Miss Saltuna’ festival was in full swing—but unlike Byzantium’s highbred sensibilities of competition, there was cohesion here. Halcyon’s elite, in striving for strength of character, attempted to exemplify ‘survival of the fittest’ with displays of wealth; however, in Edgewater, the citizens flaunted only their roles within the Spacer’s Choice family, which, today, comprised of gravitating towards town square—outside the cannery’s front loading doors—where there were company jingles rolling from great speakers. Employees danced and chatted amongst themselves, while vendors carried trays quickly emptying of low-priced, fair-quality goods.</p><p>“It’s so busy,” Margret remarked to Rebecca Wilkes, with whom she walked very close. “Byzantium exudes the beauty of deliberate bureaucracy, but it means things move cautiously. Here, your people fling themselves to the music. It might take ten minutes to decide a tune was worthy back home.”</p><p>“Not like us to dismiss so readily something aught but the sounds of the cannery,” Rebecca replied, steering them into the thick of the crowd. “Not so many songs to choose from, either, and these ones are not only sanctioned but mandatory.” With these words not sitting quite right, Rebecca apologetically recanted, “the music <b>is </b> awfully good this season, though. Same with the new <em> Supernova </em>Nanner Paste. You tried it?”</p><p>In fact, she hadn’t, and Rebecca’s unfettered preferral of <em> this year’s </em> music left <em> last year’s </em> company-contracted singer with a stomach unsettled. But Margaret only smiled, shook her head, and on they walked into the festivities’ depths.</p><p>Rebecca’s itinerary had concluded with the full exploration of local amenities, comprising mainly of where new-comer Margaret might fritter away her pay cheque and spend her free time. A responsible sort, however, the chaperone was obliged to continue her escort of the new resident, this display of esteem, while not expected, being deeply cherished. Only a year had eclipsed since Margaret had been <em> Spacer’s Voice</em>, the official voice of the company, and thus in any position of importance. Yet, where Edgewater lacked in a lavishness of accommodations, its cordiality far surpassed such material manners. The town was not as glamorous as to what she was accustomed, but it was kind, at least.</p><p>As the crowd about them shifted, Margaret asked in Rebecca’s ear “what’s happening?” The music had muted, and people swelled inward, collecting about a festooned platform erected to the left of the cannery doors.</p><p>“They’ll be naming this year’s Miss Saltuna, at last,” Rebecca informed, fastidiously running hands down the front of her vest to dislodge wrinkling imperfections. “It’s a great honor. Hours worked are taken to account, met quotas; improvements over each quarter. <em> Sick-days</em>. Those such things. Regardless of department, or station, one has the chance to be recognized for their givings to the company.”</p><p>As the crowd spurred in its excitement, Margaret was pinned against Rebecca momentarily before things settled. “Why, though, is it ‘Miss Saltuna’? Why such a title?” Catching her breath to be so tossed about, she wondered if there wasn’t some prize associated with the commodity.</p><p>However, Rebecca merely blinked, eyes void of knowing. “Why—what else would it be?”</p><p>Although not one discernable word rose from the rabble around, there was a metamorphosis of manner as red, exuberant faces turned forward. Across the crepe-paper trimmed—but elsewise empty—platform walked a man with brass loudhailer in hand, his footsteps sounding clearer as the disorder deadened to silence and his heel took him centre stage.</p><p>Bulky shoulders and swinging arms ending in wide hands with thick fingers; a broad chest stuffed into a well-appointed suit across which a stately sash was draped: the man’s proportions gave the impression of shortness which exceeded the true averageness of his stature. The brawny breadth of him well matched his face, which was wide, and boasted a small, thick-lipped mouth just size enough to let slip the prudent, succinct orders of an executive or otherwise lofty authority. However, his posture did not rise to its full height; the man bowed slightly, concerned with haste of action rather than grace of form, and even across the platform’s meager length his gait was bull-like.</p><p>He was, as her Byzantium set would have described, stout, average, and blundering. But, even by Margaret’s standards, she had to admit,</p><p>“That is a <em> very </em>important hat.”</p><p>“<b>That</b> is Outpost Administrator Reed Tobson.” Rebecca spoke as one acquainted with the man. “You’ll meet him tomorrow. In fact, with your luck, you’ll become well known to him. He oversees the town, and that he does from his offices in the cannery. Working with the tailor as I do, I rarely see him. Excepting when he comes to place an order, or have something cleaned. What the man does to his cuffs, I can’t tell you.”</p><p>Margaret interestedly reckoned on Rebecca’s apparent affiliation with the man. For someone so removed from a position of standing—Rebecca took measurements and laundered clothes—her knowledge of him quite eclipsed what would be found in Byzantium. Subordinates knew their superiors, of course, but they did not speak on it. Margaret concluded this amiable relationship to be founded on Mr. Tobson’s lack of stringency. Or, perhaps, he was thus friendly with all those under his charge: the township of Edgewater as a whole.</p><p>Glancing over her frock for discrepancies, Margaret wondered how familiar she might find herself with the outpost’s topmost, well-dressed authority.</p><p>“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Tobson, pressing the loudhailer to his lips. “Unlike the glorious, unending spawn of saltuna in our rivers, the fiscal year comes to a close. And although Edgewater runs on fish, fillets, and fortitude, that is not all that we are. We are also a family—the Spacer’s Choice family. Every face I see before me works for the betterment of this outpost to their utmost ability, I know, but it is, at this time of year, when we must strongly consider how to drive profits in the next season; how to improve, even while doing our very best. Because I know each and every one of you, and I know what you are capable of: anything. The folk of Edgewater—from cannery maintenance, to clerks and shopkeeps—are the hardiest—the most dedicated—in all of Halcyon. In my fifteen years as Outpost Administrator, such profound, deep-running dedication has never failed to—”</p><p>Despite the inelegance of his physicality—which she now rather decided was honesty—Margaret could understand Mr. Tobson’s professional appointment. She was not yet part of their flock of laborers, and yet she felt flattered; motivated to give her all to an employ she had not yet been introduced. She sensed the immense pride which brought an effectual warble to Mr. Tobson’s voice, and which swelled his sash-covered chest. His workers truly were, as she had seen before, part of a Spacer’s Choice whole, and that whole was under his attentive, care-laden command.</p><p>Although not understanding some of what was said, Margaret squirreled her curiosity away in favor of watching his lips. They peeled back some, exposing white teeth sustained by company hygiene products, as well as a smile that was easy. Again Margaret wondered on cultivating his friendship, and how that friendship might be likened to the simpering support supplied by her superiors of the past. Edgewater’s Outpost Administrator seemed unsimilar to the various talent agents or recruitment specialists of Byzantium, but surely the differences between both sets of high-ranking authorities was not <b>so </b>great as to make her fawning postures obsolete.</p><p>“—and so, with great pride, it is that I name this year’s Miss Saltuna: Erika Severin!”</p><p>Amidst boisterous, crowd-offered approval, the benamed woman received her commendation. Everyone was afterwards directed to enjoy a dinner supplied by the offices of Spacer’s Choice, in thanks for the year’s profits, yet, all the while, Margaret’s eyes were still on the Outpost Administrator, watching where his gaze went and what it did once there. </p><p>“Come,” Rebecca said, pulling on her sleeve, similarly excited as the surrounding assembly which was sweeping them along. “The raffle airs before the dinner. Surely I’ve a chance at something this year.”</p><p>Margaret’s eye was still drawn to the stage. ”But—is the Outpost Administrator not heading to the dinner?”</p><p>Rebecca glanced at the cannery-aimed figure stopping to speak with those whose hand he took in a cordial shake.</p><p>“He’s busy, most like,” Rebecca dismissed. “While the lot of us are off for the day, the cannery equipment is given a one-over. Something, I’m sure, he needs be present for.”</p><p>“Should I not say hello?” Margaret rose on her tip-toes to see across the crowd. “After all, being new to the town, I....”</p><p>“You’ll be introduced tomorrow,” Rebecca promised. “Meeting the Outpost Administrator is part of workplace orientation, not citizenship orientation. It’s all laid out in the company charter, as I understand.”</p><p>Propitious fate championed by a fresh shift in the crowd suddenly parted both attendant and attended. Rebecca’s beckoning voice was heard in the din’s depths, but Margaret allowed the motion to wash her the opposite way, impressed by her luck as she ducked in and around bodies until, at last, she found new air, stumbling from the horde a small ways from the cannery yard.</p><p>Moving quickly hence, the well-kept suit of company-mandated colours was unmistakable.</p><p>“Mr. Tobson!” </p><p>In the time it took for his stout, wide-shouldered form to turn around, Margaret had affected the practised, wide-eyed, and exuberant poise so often expected in her chorus-line days, when graceful posture had been akin to professional and religious propriety.</p><p>“Mr. Tobson, hello!” Margaret greeted, a-glow, as she glided towards him. “I’d hoped for a moment of your time, although, if importunate, I’ll be on my way.” Coming upon him, she offered genteel civility in her outstretched hand. “My name is—”</p><p>“Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung! Our new-comer, of course!” Not only did Mr. Tobson accept the formality, but both hands encircled her palm, pressing warmly with profuse enthusiasm. “And, may I say, what an honor it is to have <em> Spacer’s Voice 2342 </em> joining this branch of the Spacer’s Choice family tree. You are a most welcome edition! Most welcome, indeed.”</p><p>“Oh!” Assuming a blushing modesty, Margaret looked away while she carefully clutched his hold. “I hadn’t expected such compliments from the Outpost Administrator! I’ve been off-contract for a few seasons, now, and the most notice I’ve received is polite glances.”</p><p>Mr. Tobson smiled. “You hit the nail on the head, there, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. My people <b>are </b>polite. But I think you’ll find a few more admirers of your talents—besides myself, of course—here in Edgewater, and I’m sure you’ll hear from them quite soon.” As their hands parted, the man looked quizzically about, giving time enough for Margaret to gauge the colour of his eyes as a dull green. “But where is Mrs. Wilkes—your chaperone?”</p><p>Biting her lip, Margaret barely abstained from doubly wiling him with a batting of her lashes. “Don’t be cross with her, Mr. Tobson. I’m at fault. After the announcement outside, we became separated, although I rather used it to my advantage.”</p><p>“And to what advantage, might I ask, is that?”</p><p>Effusively, Margaret stepped closer. “I was hoping for a tour of the cannery. It’s to be part of my orientation tomorrow, I know, but I’m so curious about it! There’s so much to see, I’m sure, and, now, while it’s all but sleeping—I should like to see it at rest as much as while it is bustling.”</p><p>Mr. Tobson’s brow smoothed in patient reproach. “You should hope never to see it at rest, miss. For when the cannery rests, there is no saltuna being produced; there are no profits being earned. Silence, in Edgewater, is something to be feared. You should hope to always hear the cannery singing. It is the sound of commerce, and of commitment. It is the sound of income, quality, and purpose. ”</p><p>“But, surely, there is profit in maintenance of the machinery,” Margaret answered. “Though it may be stopped momentarily.”</p><p>Hoping she had not overstepped her bounds with questioning, her fears were allayed by an approving grin on the part of her superior, which, although it did not expose his well-kept teeth, it did pinch at his broad cheeks, giving the man an air of kindly amity.</p><p>“And right you are.” Mr. Tobson’s back straightened in his concession. “Alright, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. It may not be recommended in the company procedures regarding new hires, but I find that enthusiasm of yours difficult to disappoint. Come along. We’ll begin at the loading doors, and work our way through.”</p><p>Margaret joined his side, clinging to his arm with all the casual deportment of acquaintances strolling the Byzantium promenade. Though taken off guard, as the vigorous clearing of his throat suggested, Mr. Tobson led her off, leaving Margaret to commend the correctness of her previous suspicion: the differences between her Byzantium and Edgewater superiors were not so great, and a deal of kittenish panache on her part would be the asset it had once been, though it had once been in a place of much greater sophistication.</p><p>At length, Mr. Tobson spoke of peculiarities and duties specific to situations of scheduling. He explored the formalities and focus of different shifts, and the flow of the workday as it pertained to areas of the cannery. With hesitance, Mr. Tobson disinclined to oblige Margaret the anecdotes specific to his personal life, which she attempted to extract as a form of flattery, and which he avoided out of, what she believed to be, professionalism. Ardent though he was towards the place of which he was steward, the man was very humble in regards to himself.</p><p>“Of course,” Mr. Tobson was saying as they strolled the upper deck, overlooking the floor below, “nothing compares to the excitement of a new shipment rolling in.”</p><p>His natural pace, appearably hurried, was curtailed in deference to her, as well as wishing to prolong their intimate discussion of the place, if his pleased, contented tone was any indication.</p><p>“And when does that happen?” Margaret asked.</p><p>“Sundays and Wednesdays,” was the swift answer before another passionate oration. “You see, the Edgewater cannery runs as finely as a well-tuned machine—there’s isn’t a deadline we can’t meet—but that does not mean our suppliers are without deficiency. I cannot count the number of times intake from offworld has arrived past the allotted hour, disrupting schedules; forcing workers in early, or to stay late. The paperwork alone! But—as I’m sure you’ll understand—one grain of errant sand does not halt the process of industry.”</p><p>Envisioning a dozening workers dancing about in well-known routine, Margaret enthused, “I imagine there’s quite the commotion. Men and women, all rushing from their duties to lend a hand.”</p><p>“Ah-ah,” Mr. Tobson chastised, shaking his head with a soft, wary smile. “As in all things, each employee is assigned a certain, scientifically-determined role which entails specific responsibilities, and which must not be overstepped. Try to picture the pandaemonium of every staff member suddenly abandoning their station. Machines could break down; fish already arrived might spoil!”</p><p>“But what if there’s no one who can help in putting a late shipment to order? No one who’s expressed responsibility it is to do so, I mean? Do positions change?”</p><p>“Why—not at all!” Though not scornful, there was a great deal of shock in Mr. Tobson’s murky, green eyes. It was doubly expressed by his turning towards her, causing his arm to slip from hers. “I must say I’m surprised. That someone from the seat of bureaucracy itself should question the indisputable roles as laid out in the Grand Plan—a practice that has sustained not only Halcyon, but civilization as we know it, for hundreds of years—”</p><p>“I don’t question the practice of it,” Margaret pressed fervently, hands clasped at her breast. “Only the practicality. You see—”she added hastily, noting he was no less scandalized—”in Byzantium, we might be expected to mend our own costumes, or see to our stage makeup, before performing. It was not seen as working in opposition to the Architect's Equation; merely a means of fulfilling our obligations. As you said: an errant grain of sand could not stop the works, as it were, if we were lacking our support staff. The show had to go on.”</p><p>Head tilted thoughtfully, but with eyes less courteously conceding, Mr. Tobson’s large shoulders squared. “Well, you’ll not find such impoverishment here. Everyone has their role, and it is given the dedication and piety is deserves.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p>Her quiet, scolded affirmation produced its desired effect. Mr. Tobson’s expression softened alongside his tone, and he took a yielding step closer, offering such comfort as this new proximity might afford.</p><p>“Do you miss it? Byzantium, I mean. It was your home for… ten years, I believe?”</p><p>“Yes, ten years,” Margaret answered, looking up from the grated floor. “And, yes, I miss it. But I missed Stellar Bay when I was first newly moved to Byzantium, too.”</p><p>Already boasting the brilliant, blazing incandescence of the cannery’s electricity, the man’s eyes shone unexpectedly with light from another source. “That’s right. You hail from Stellar Bay, do you not. What a marvelous coincidence—so do I.”</p><p>In confronting the loss of Byzantium, Margaret found the allure of indulging her self-pity to be great and heavy; however, piqued by Mr. Tobson’s personal information, seldom as it was offered, she distracted herself, forcing herself towards a line of questioning that had lain quiet in her mind some years out of necessity.</p><p>“Have you news from the state of things there? Fashionable conversation rather avoided it, at home, and I’ve wondered often what became of the people there.”</p><p>Crooking his elbow, Mr. Tobson motioned for her to accept his leading step. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. Corporate doesn’t like talk of the place, idle gossip or otherwise. However, if you refer to the fates of those committed to the Board—rather than the atrocious dissidence of that no-account Nandi fellow—”</p><p>“—of course—”</p><p>“—then I can tell you a fair few of their employees were transferred here, and we have profited greatly from their experience. A fine group of men and women, I don’t mind saying; truly fine. Corporate has mentioned the possibility of retrofitting our cannery to accomodate for primary processing of saltuna, as well—what with the embargo on Terra 1’s products—but I can tell you with the utmost certainty that we won’t see it within our lifetimes. No, sir.”</p><p>Coming to the end of the incline, Margaret found the cannery floor cooler than the upper level, though the air was less fresh. “No?”</p><p>As they walked, Mr. Tobson’s expression smoothed, making him seem younger in the roundness of his cheek and in the smattering of freckles that clustered near his eyes and nose, and which burst across his skin like constellations when his countenance softened. He sighed the sigh of one off their feet for the first time in hours. He sounded comforted, and soothed. “No. We are what we are; what we have always been: a secondary processor of the finest food in Halcyon, and it is unfathomable that we should change. Profits for the company are up; projections are through the roof, as they say. If anything, I see an expansion of Spacer’s Choice factories across the colony, just to keep up with demand.”</p><p>“If that were to happen, would you go? In such a situation, I see the need of men with such invaluable experience as yours, Mr. Tobson, to ensure these places have their best start.”</p><p>Smiling, the man reddened, flattered by the notion. “I go as the company dictates. But I would be sorry to leave Edgewater. Luckily, such relocations are far and few between, and rarely very permanent.” He sighed once more. “No, I am where I am meant to be—where I will always be. I take great comfort in that.”</p><p>Margaret grinned feebly. Such stability had never been hers. Not in the years of being shuffled between company contracts. </p><p>As they stepped, their heels’ echoes accompanied by the occasional clang of machinery, they traversed both the facility’s floor and such conversation as it pertained to safety standards, hierarchy, and paperwork. The exit, and end, came rather abruptly, leaving Margaret to wonder over the success of her conquest. At the puffing of Mr. Tobson’s chest, she took it not only as pride but partiality—the man had been persuaded enough by her poise to, perhaps, lend some amount of security in the future; an undeniable bias disguised as friendship. Byzantium had been built on such relationships, and though Edgewater seemed least like that beacon of humanity, clearly there were customs that transcended class and rank.</p><p>“And there you have it,” Mr. Tobson summationed, eyes roaming the confines of his cannery. “What do you think?”</p><p>“I think,” Margaret said, leaving what comfort there was in leaning on his arm so that she might face him, “tomorrow will be extremely exciting.”</p><p>Mr. Tobson nodded. “I believe you’re right.”</p><p>Leading her towards the door, etiquette held it open alongside his wide, well-built hand. Stepping out, Margaret blinked for the late afternoon sun starting towards setting in the most marvelous array of shades. She could count, on one hand, the number of sunsets witnessed in Byzantium, and here she was, the first day in this new place, already viewing such pinks and yellows as never before.</p><p>She chose to find beauty in this strangeness rather than chafe at anomaly. Edgewater was different, but it was now home. For as long as her contract permitted.</p><p>“I hope my curiosity has not painted me as some doubtful indolent, Mr. Tobson,” Margaret said, turning towards him, her hands clasped loosely before her. “And that what ignorance I have can be blamed on living these last years in quite a different place.”</p><p>“The company saw fit to send you here, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung, and that is all the proof I need to know you will be an asset. Although, I must say again, what a supreme honor it is to have you joining our family.”</p><p>“I hope to do you proud, Mr. Tobson,” Margaret said, her stare bright and hand outstretched while waiting return. Such strength there was in her stare, it seemed, for the man returned her gaze a moment too long; his murky green orbs, which seemed similarly flecked by freckles like the skin of his cheek, dancing about her face before he swallowed hard at a shuddering breath.</p><p>Taking her palm in his, Mr. Tobson pressed it with the same warm enthusiasm as before. “I have no doubt you will, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. No doubt at all.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Injured Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>November, 2345. One month into the new fiscal year, and Edgewater has hit a hiccup. Taking on the burden of additional sultuna production following Terra 1’s Hazard Clause, Reed Tobson’s factory is finally starting to feel the pinch of over-work. Exhausted machinery parts are protesting, and employees are reporting sick in unprecedented numbers. Added to these problems, newcomer Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung is becoming more trouble by the day.</p><p>#workplace injuries just got sexy</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Suchlike the workings of a machine made to punctually serve, Reed Tobson had his routines down to a science, for he was a religious man. This daily, dependable pattern started with departure from his domicile, a walk through the mist-laden morning over wet, pebbled ground finding him aimed for the cannery’s break room, where Reed kettled tea and conversed with those employees engaged upon the first floor.</p><p>According to custom, before his <em> Trip-Teaz Wham-O-Mile Blend with hints of Virtually Vanilla </em>had cooled, Reed was to be seated behind his desk in the leather high-back, his office profuse with the perfume of local industry—namely, saltuna—and that which inspired expedience in his conduct. Dictated by the yields of the shift prior and the year previous, the day’s production targets would be delegated to his capable floor management; thereafter, Reed would embark upon the liberal mountain of mail pertaining to both town interests and cannery concerns.</p><p>This comfortable commonality seemed destined to pass, for, strolling into his office, Reed noted another particle of personal policy which assured his routine remained unbroken. Fastidiously groomed, Ashum Petherick was present, preoccupied by their old contest—that of attempting to out-do the other in being first to their post—however, the man’s expression curled displeasurable upon regarding his superior: a strangeness, for it was mornings which found him in the most agreeable spirits.</p><p>“You may want to sit down, sir,” Ashum said. A yellow folder lay opened in hand, its guts of vernacular and written-word wholly displayed.</p><p>Finding the workday’s foremost moments as salutary as a cool glass of <em> Zergo Gee</em>, Reed smiled cordially, placing his cup upon its coaster before finding his chair beneath him. “And good morning to you, Mr. Petherick. What <em> is </em>this about? Another suggestion regarding shift extensions?” Adjusting his tie, he accepted the leaflet. “I can’t argue with corporate’s intentions, but I know the people of Edgewater. Our efficiency, and I dare say our exceptional output, boils down to the schedule we keep. Tinkering with it now won’t do us any good.”</p><p>Ashum stood stiffly, hands at his back. “It’s a maintenance report, Mr. Tobson.”</p><p>Skimming the missives, Reed’s eyes wiled. This was no mere note of peeling paint. Utmost damage had been done to a line of conveyor belts, forcing an entire production line to halt. Additionally, the cannery’s topmost mechanic, Mr. Robert Holcomb, had put in a work-order regarding new equipment, for, to the sure-handed grease-jockey’s great apology, the sealing units could no longer be depended upon to function following any impending patch-jobs. Short-term as such measures were, they’d been often employed, and it seemed time had run out for these thriftier means of persistence.</p><p>“This can’t be,” astounded Reed, flipping between pages. His voice seemed to choke on itself. “We closed for maintenance a fortnight ago.”</p><p>“A month,” Ashum corrected. “To the day.”</p><p>Reed shook his head. While scheduled upkeep to the scale of that day—that of the Miss Saltuna contest—came sparse indeed, such seldom occurrence had, formerly, been sufficient. Closing the cannery once-per-quarter had pacified most needs of repair, with nightly maintenance, of course, a tremendous supplement; yet, following Terra 1’s dereliction of Board loyalty, Edgewater’s saltuna cannery had been tasked with further burden of production. <em> ‘Opportunity </em>’ corporate called it, and Reed did not refute this; however, when ill-fate, well exemplified by this current debacle, so afflicted his bottom line, the man frustrated. His town had long run as a well-tuned contraption of commerce: he hated to see it hesitate, and his workers bare that hesitance.</p><p>Composing the report’s papers into a pile, Reed folded his hands on top. “To the day, hm?” He sighed. “<em>Still</em>. The expense wasn’t figured on. Head office will have no problem sending out the parts, of course, but I do hate looking short-sighted.” Wiping a hand down his face, Reed searched his desk’s top drawer. “With line A out for the foreseeable future, we shall be forced to institute short-term over-time; bring in a bigger evening shift. We—” </p><p>“That isn’t all, sir,” Ashum interrupted, stepping forward, something plucked from his own workstation in hand: a small note, and he was looking at it furtively. “We’ve had an… incident. An accident, in fact.”</p><p>Reed stood. “We’ve <em> what </em>?”</p><p>It was contempt that propelled Reed’s incredulity. Lengthy abstinence from workplace calamity had been a point of pride, favorably remarked upon by his superiors only lately. Moreover, Reed required his employees to perform in accordance with specifically stipulated guidelines; he trusted them to do so, for, so frequent was their prudent care and precaution that his expectations were heightened. It was contempt that propelled Reed’s disbelief, but that disbelief was born of his supreme esteem for the cannery’s laborers, and the shock that they might falter.</p><p>The year—2345—had seemed so auspicious owing to its numerical arrangement; it was like poetry, supposed he, though Reed was no judge of the fractal arts. But on days like this, when cause for lament came before the morning shift had started proper, he wondered at the Architect’s design.</p><p>“What happened? And to whom?” The Outpost Administrator moved around his desk, readying to fly fore the physician’s station.</p><p>Expression like stone—ever the calm head in a crisis—Ashum offered the triplicate form upon its clipboard. “We’ve yet to complete an incident report, sir. It’s Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung, and she’s in the sick-room.”</p><p>Clipboard in hand, Reed directed towards the infirmary.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Stark for its small breadth and kept, white walls, the physician’s room was vacuous upon relation to its once lavish stock. Two years prior, the infirmary proffered such nostrums, liniments, and swathes as to provide panacea for Edgewater wholly, though Edgewater also boasted its own sawbones, a doctor Maybell Burgess, separate from the cannery. In the span since, inventory oversight consultants, kindly sent from Byzantium, had deemed such support as wasteful, gradually reducing the amount of supply sent out over the succeeding months. </p><p>Reed understood entirely. His passion was accounting; the surplus, though generous, certainly appeared thriftless, particularly when impacting the company’s broader budget, yet he couldn’t help bemoan privately. In the event of misfortune, doctoring would need come from in town, all but assuring the hypothetical damage aggrandize.</p><p>Accepting the company’s frugal decision, Reed nonetheless recalled a most solid truth: that Spacer’s Choice employees were Spacer’s Choice property, and, thus, it was imperative that they be cared for appropriately, meaning with due prudence.</p><p>Such prudence had been on his mind, lately. Walking into the physician’s room, it was upon espying the cannery’s newest hire that prudence weighed heavily once more. While accidents were seldom, illness was yet another matter</p><p>Only last week had Reed been in this room, attending the afflicted Zayyan Newton, a company man all his life, who had married a company woman, and raised two dear company children: a son, Gethin, who had transferred to Gorgon, and a daughter, Madhiah, first on Terra 1, who was now returned to Terra 2, to a Spacer’s Choice bottling facility down south. Veritably devout, Zayyan had suffered so immense an attack to his constitution as to make work ridiculous, and there’d been small alternative save sending him home. With such misfortune manifesting among his employees—the monthly average of indisposition doubling during the last year’s closing quarter—Reed was unsure of what to do.</p><p>However, discerning the dainty, wincing way in Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung held her thin wrist, illness appeared not the present concern, and therefore was remitted to later considering.</p><p>The new hire perched upon the medical cot. Suited impeccably in pristine uniform, it was a relief to see previous altercations to her company dress had been removed. Hailing from Byzantium—where elaborate style was as suitable as it was expected—Miss DeLoughrey-Jung had, during her first week, personally refit her Spacer’s Choice attire, affording a more flattering cut which was improper and like profanity. Not only had her actions violated company property, but, too, had they infringed up specific standards of order, and sameness; to look any other way was to rebel against the corporate brand, though a hasty word convinced her of her folly.</p><p>Reed was gladdened to see Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s amenability. Her past was nothing baleful—she came from the seat of bureaucracy, after all—and it was hoped that the woman’s transition was, henceforth, less exciting.</p><p>“Holden.” Reed greeted the cannery physician. His left hand, free of its clipboard, collegially placed upon the sawbones’ shoulder. “Have you had your morning coffee yet?”</p><p>“Breaks’ not for another twenty or so, sir,” Holden answered.</p><p>Inherited from his pioneering progenitors, who’d toted the articulation like luggage from Earth, his was a strange accent, its postmark from a town dubbed Ire Land, or Ironland—the name was uncertain. Regardless of annals forgotten, Holden boasted witness of the previous administration’s entirety, making him respectable, conversant, and enviable; a capital conversationalist, were his laggard mannerisms given the respect of patience (and a cup of Spacer’s Choice <em> Pail Ale</em>, his preferred tipple).</p><p>Placing a chair alongside Miss DeLoughrey-Jung, Reed suggested to Holden, with a kind grin, “why don’t you toddle off a little early, hm? Give us a chance to fill out this report. Unless there’s anything else?”</p><p>“No, sir,” Holden said. “It’s but a musculoskeletal injury—a sprain on ‘er right wrist,” he clarified, knowing Tobson preferred smaller words, while laboriously managing out of his medical jacket to place it on the wall. “Will be needing a sling and altered duties, I expect. Your call, of course, sir.”</p><p>“Thank you, Holden.”</p><p>Hearing the starch in his clothing stretch while he sat, Reed turned to the injured party. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s right arm lay limply in her lap, though discomfort had been swept away in favor of a demure, yet dauntless, countenance, such doubtlessness of expression suggesting determination to meet the situation, rather than shy from it, which was appreciated, as Reed put his pen to work.</p><p>“Name: Miss Margaret DeLoughrey-Jung,” Reed narrated as he addressed the form’s foremost query. Continuing into the inquest, he further read aloud, thus informing her of what was written. “There’s the date, your position; Holden said it was a sprain. Right wrist. <em> Now .</em>” Looking up, into her face, Reed implored, “would you be so good as to tell me what happened, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung?”</p><p>A warbling of his voice prompted a clearing of the throat. As a form of private address rather than point of reference, that name still staggered his constitution. Only last year, that name might have well been describing a celestial body, its merits distant yet felicitous, and the sight of it, however seldom, come entirely welcome for all its reclusion. To hear the Spacer’s Choice many advertisements was to witness the facets of a familiar smile—her smile; though, now that her countenance was to be borne personably, that smile struck him somewhat dissimilarly.</p><p>The celebratory events surrounding their earliest acquaintance, capable of eliciting joy in the most miserly of minds, had seen Reed’s eye dazzled. Moreover, her beautiful resume had produced fervent feelings even before their introductions; however, in the weeks subsequent, the lustre dulled. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung was no liaison to Spacer’s Choice—she was merely an impression of it, and owning all the disappointments of which humans are capable. Still, her merits weren’t unremarkable, as, though she did not blaze about the room, she certainly lit it up, and her newly-formed associations seemed not few, for often she was amidst a hale group, entertaining via lively anecdote. Added to this, once one found strength to cut through her distractingly larksome Byzantium custom, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung appeared respectably honest and straightforward. Although, straight forward and into trouble, it seemed more often than not.</p><p>“You’re still not calling me Margaret,” Miss DeLoughrey-Jung noted, coquetry in the confines of her affected, tilting face.</p><p>Readjusting his position, Reed hefted one of his legs over the other, pondering affably upon this truth. “No,” his good humor answered, “I suppose I’m not. I don’t believe us to be acquainted well enough for that particular privilege. Just as I don’t understand how such a capable woman could manage to bring herself to harm.”</p><p>Miss DeLoughrey-Jung's eyes rounded. “It was an accident.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” Reed said with a half-coughing laugh. Clearing his throat, he offered sympathy. “Just... explain what happened. To the best of your ability. These things <em> do </em>happen, I know.”</p><p>The woman’s hesitance, florid in one moment and waned the next, gave way to unreserved confession. “Well, I had finished loading a cart of packaged cans—”</p><p>“At what time?” Reed’s pen hovered above the form. </p><p>“Near ten minutes to eight. As the morning shift was arriving. I’d noted a few making for the breakroom.”</p><p>“Very good,” Reed purred, as though a fabled cat which enjoyed nothing better than the caress of reliable observation. Documenting these findings, he asked, “now, you’d loaded a, uh, R10 24-by-48 inch platform cart, yes? To standard capacity? What followed?”</p><p><em> “Well.” </em> Sitting forward, her countenance bloomed with the radiance of sharing worthy gossip. “I started to move towards the warehouse when such reason struck me as to leave me amazed. I realized that I might be doubly productive should I pile the cargo to six boxes high, or seven! Five is far below what I can handle on my own. It hardly weighs as much as many of my costumes did, back when I was on stage, and <b> <em>that </em> </b>I was carrying on my hips and shoulders.”</p><p>Reed’s heart stumbled before besetting his throat most oppressively. “Are you… Are you suggesting that you engaged in a <em> premeditated </em> breach of company conduct?” Collecting himself, the Outpost Administrator, skeptical that any Spacer’s Choice employee could be so criminal, blamed himself for an erroneous presumption, for he believed that her previous insurrection—the disaster  with her uniform—had predisposed him to think poorly of her. “You <em> were </em>given your employee standards pamphlet, yes? Have you not had time to read it?” He all but begged her to use this justification.</p><p>“Oh, I read it. Only… One could accomplish so much more if they were to stack the boxes a little taller.” Dolefully, she added, “my only folly was not using a ladder. And not catching the thing as it fell.”</p><p>“Your folly was disregarding the protocols which corporate has specifically, and benevolently, put into place. Everyone must follow the rules—everyone!”</p><p>Overmuch, this indignant, just effusion bred discompose in both parties. Pinching the bridge of his nose, tiredly, the man sighed while Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s posture straightened, her fortitude carrying her forward into willfulness.</p><p>“No one, in all the years of this fine cannery, has thought to try as I have? Not even yourself?” She spoke softly, like to afford him the convenience of ignoring her, should he choose it; however, she continued, then, her words given the confidence of flattery’s generosity. “As a man of such importance and standing, you <b>must </b>have mused upon a few ideas that would facilitate improvement—”</p><p>“Certainly not,” Reed cut in, looking at her sharply. “It is not the custom of Edgewater to question our parent company. We are a <em> loyal town</em>.”</p><p>“I appreciate the dedication to custom, Mr. Tobson. But common sense—”</p><p>“Seems to have flown out the door today, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung,” Reed said curtly. He took a deep breath, so as to sustain himself for the impending reproach. “Let me start by saying that our protocols are not <em> only </em> for the sake of safety. They ensure a specific schedule is respected; that packaging specialists, such as yourself, have every moment of their workday spoken for, increasing our profits while promoting health, wholesomeness, and purpose, but that schedule <b>must </b>be kept. From the length of one’s lunch break, to the time it takes to transfer a trolley: all has been accounted for. Including how many boxes are to go on a cart.”</p><p>Knowing his lecture sprung from the lauded (and neglected) Spacer’s Choice employee pamphlet he had, previously, alluded to, Reed turned to the unfortunate facts of their predicament. “Arduous scientific trials and complicated calculations have determined the most efficient means of production. And I can think of nothing which so proves this point than what has taken place here. Not only have you damaged company property—I speak of the unit of fumbled cans, now—but there is yourself to consider. You have done injury to yourself, for which you will require alleviates. You’ve inconvenienced the staff as much as myself in needing to find a replacement for your post. Furthermore, you’ve opened the cannery to sanctions which will affect bonuses and raises across the board, as there are penalties for injuries incurred, and the cannery is one entity—<em>one </em>. The actions of one woman will affect the whole. And all of this on company time!”</p><p>Reed swallowed, enabling his body a moment to propitiate his rising bile. He stated, sadly, once he had calmed his canid-like tempers, “it pains me to say, but I shall have to make a note in your permanent file.”</p><p>Such did Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s countenance pale that Reed feared the woman may faint, presently. Her cheek lost all the blush of life, while her eyes deadened to that of the voidful black space between stars, mislaid of their animating light which, customarily, coloured her cordiality, like the shade of her locks—a warm, welcoming rose. It was beyond those strands which she now hid her face, as though a veil, her head tilted down, and chin resting piteously on her bosom.</p><p>To witness such contrariety to her sportive spirit produced not surprise in Reed—he knew he was in the right, and that Miss DeLoughrey-Jung was as clever as she were coltish, requiring that she realize his accuracy. However, that he had asserted his position so rancorously hurt him rudely, in turn. Ebullition opposed the wisdom of self-possession; his faith dictated a mild mind, yet, in circumstances as these, he found himself fighting his passions, borne, he promised himself, of company loyalty, though effusive they were, nonetheless.</p><p>Head lowered as hers was, Reed contended with regret’s exhaustion, turning to her in a moment of like emotion.</p><p>“I am not a petulant man, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. But I must protect those under my employ. And, at times, that means such desperate measures as these.” Knowing what he were to ask was of no consequence—motive behind wrongdoing did not excuse  sin—still, Reed asked, though his voice lagged under weariness, “why did you do it? You said you wished to be more productive?”</p><p>“Yes,” Miss DeLoughrey-Jung answered, all imaginable iota of apology poured into her affirmations. “I wished to prove my value. With the problems I’ve been having… That I have, sorely, been the cause of... I’d hoped to make up for all that.”</p><p>Reed nodded sagely. “You speak of the incident with your uniform.”</p><p>“Not only. The miscalculation with my cooking unit; the laundering appliance misstep…”</p><p>“The, ah…?”</p><p>An abashed rouge began at her cheek. Though this blushing sign of returned composure came from embarrassment, it was life nonetheless. “I’d believed you knew,” said Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. “My second day here, I tried to boil a pot of water. For noodles. For supper. And I now owe the company store for a new range. In addition to this, I’m debted for maintenance done to my domicile, and a fee for property damage, as the smoke was so great.” </p><p>Reed blinked.</p><p>“Also”—Miss DeLoughrey-Jung counted items upon those fingers of her unscathed hand—“I have to pay a fee for water damage, as there was a mishap upon attempting to launder my secondary uniform. Oh! And, of course, I had to buy another one of those—the uniform,” she clarified. “And, um, some sleepwear which I’d only just received,” she added.</p><p>“I had no idea.” Reed was more awed than horrified.</p><p>This astonishment may have been taken as pardon. That humor which had returned to Miss DeLoughrey-Jung, slowly as she explained her personal woes, burgeoned on vitality, finding her mood buoyant as usual; as a saltuna shipper, bouncing at sea.</p><p>“It’s no excuse,” she assured him, smiling, “but I ask that you consider my years in Byzantium before you judge. My meals were prepared for me, and I… I can’t even say where my costumes, or clothing, went to be laundered. I placed it in its bin, and it would appear, cleaned, soon thereafter.” Frowning, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s eyes bore into his, as though to take his hands in hers, which she could not do, for her injury. “I accept the consequences of my actions, but only—don’t think me a brainless fool. From someone such as you, I couldn’t bear it.” Sighing, the woman looked to her lap. Her tone, deepening, seemed come from another woman: one Reed had not yet met, and one not prone to coy displays. “I am accustomed to a little more success in my endeavours,” she admitted quietly. “I’m mortified by all of this.”</p><p>The notion bloomed inspiration through his brain, tendrils reaching all facets of his ideation. Citation of those ‘successful endeavors’, which had bedecked her resume as beautifully as low costs on a profit margin report, caused Reed to envision her upon a Byzantium street, Spacer’s Choice adverts sprung from her lips, her lovely, lucrative song so clearly labored from her heart; but the image faded. </p><p>Reed was not taken to fancy. Day-dreaming, <em> speculation</em>: neither did the company hand-book cover. Fact and reality were the realm of his appointed station—though honesty would compel a concession of previous wonderment, Reed’s esteem for Miss DeLoughrey-Jung was now inspired by his faith, his office, the paternalism of Spacer’s Choice precepts, and his accountability to her, a company woman. As her employer, her missteps and miserable disposition were his own. Therefore, sitting forward in his seat, Reed cast aside his clipboard, and carefully took her injured wing in his hand, the offended appendage, laying in his, much smaller than his own.</p><p>His other hand brushed over her arm; over the delicate, clear skin of her wrist. His thumb caressed it out of duty.</p><p>“Miss DeLoughrey-Jung. I see this company—the whole of the Spacer’s Choice brand, in fact—as kin. And as Outpost Administrator, that rather paints me the father figure of this branch on the family tree, wouldn’t you say?” Hoping to soothe the sting from his obligation—that of officially noting her offense—Reed implored her, feelingly. “Tell me: what can I do to improve things for you?”</p><p>Her eyes, the pale green of the company’s patented colours, looked to him from beneath low lids. Her gaze captured his as a net embracing a school of saltuna; with her breathing baring the softest tremble, her wrist moved from his grip, rising nearer his face, her own facade wincing with dull, endured pain.</p><p>Motioning to her affliction, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung bit her bottom lip before speaking. “You might kiss this better.”</p><p>Reed laughed. For a man from a simple town, and from simple, forthright stock, Byzantium manners were beyond his faculties of understanding. Taking her hand, still hovering near him, he patted it before moving it towards her. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung laughed softly, as well, letting her wrist return to her lap; however, a shadow of bafflement gainsaid the amusement drawn on her lips.</p><p>Hefting his leg over the other, Reed created, anew, a plateau on which to rest his clipboard. Pen taken up to complete his woeful report, a question was posed before he had chance to proffer his own.</p><p>“Was it so easy for you?” Miss DeLoughrey-Jung asked. “When you left Stellar Bay for here, I mean. To fit in, to… adjust.”</p><p>Reed’s vigilant, private debate, giving the false impression of hesitance, inspired Miss DeLoughrey-Jung towards a generous addendum.</p><p>“In Byzantium, <em> everyone </em>is quite open about their family histories,” she mused, rhapsodizing in that delighted light which often attended talk of Halcyon’s capital. “Of course, legacies are treated like currency, back home. To be honest, I always found the ones witness to a little modesty to be more interesting.”</p><p>Reed smiled at her misunderstanding.</p><p>“It isn’t modesty, I assure you. There simply isn’t much to say. I’m a Spacer’s Choice man—have been all my life. I was raised in Stellar Bay; the cannery was my home, as my mother held an administration post, there—secretary, specifically. Secretary to the Head of Accounting.” Reed was not shamed by the ardent regard in his voice; it had seemed so impressive a station, as a child, inspiring a life-long enthusiasm for balancing books as a hobby, and he was certain that passion for calculations could not contradict his faith.</p><p>“I was excited to come to Edgewater, of course,” Reed continued. “The previous Outpost Administrator, my father, did an admirable job of building, and maintaining, this town to code, but I watched it <em> boom</em>. I oversaw expansion; saw the building of the new Community Centre, erected in the place of the old. I watched the northern industrial zone take shape, boasting its own mechanical garage and domiciles, whose lodgers largely work at the Botanical labs, now. There are shops there; a <em> library</em>. Full of Spacer’s Choice manuals, company histories and biographies on notable figures; pop-up books for the children. Charming, little stories about the interstellar migration of saltuna from Terra 1 to Terra 2.” Reed’s head tilted thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, those may have been redacted.” Clearing his throat, he turned away from the reverie of Edgewater’s recalled proliferation. “In short, I entertain no modesty when it comes to my enthusiasm for my town, and that was from day one. I was given a great responsibility: to balance the needs of the people with the expectations of the company. And <em> that… </em>” </p><p>Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s eyes, munificently absorbed in this prolix, produced pity in Reed, when, moments before, she had sought understanding which he dismissed. Reed, now, chose to commiserate.</p><p>“And that,” he repeated, sighing, “has not always been easy. Alongside town expansions, new workers came to Edgewater, but there was not always room for them. Nor the reserves to ply them with food, or personal products. There was call for creative budgeting, then, let me assure you.” He continued his roll-call of griefs. “Company-mandated holidays, at times, are implemented on days less… ideal, scheduling and shipments taken into consideration. Even organizing the roll-out of new uniforms can prove surprisingly complicated, given that families have not always budgeted for the, ah, <em> surprise </em>expense.”</p><p>Repugnance struck him, as Reed realized this admission of personal deficiencies rather placed blame on the company’s decisions. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung caught his distaste; yet, quietly, she offered, “you care about your townsfolk, Mr. Tobson. That much is clear. Well-meaning as they are, perhaps the company is <b>too </b> well-meaning, at times. But, if this <em> were </em>complaint, on your part, that would not be so bad. The body groans from over-work, and the company, accepting of this, deems holidays, and rest days, an acceptable remittance. If we are but parts in a grand machine, we, too, require maintenance, and maybe airing such inconveniences as yours is just that.” A smile, expressive of her empathetic feeling which soothed, with understanding, those thorns of frustration in him, flashed upon her face, cheek to cheek. “If your employees’ needs were, at times, at odds with the company, does it not see reason that your needs would be similarly disadvantaged?”</p><p>Though he’d little overlooked the company-directed criticisms of his own words, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s justifications for his ingratitude persuaded to the point of exaggeration. It may have irked him further than his own conduct; however, a weight was lifted from his shoulders—one he hadn’t realized he owned, and one that flew from him upon looking past his corporate oaths to the truth of his sentiments. This, encouraged by her.</p><p>“You, Miss DeLoughrey-Jung,” Reed admitted with a shaken, humorless laugh, “are remarkably easy to talk to.”</p><p>“Which is interesting, as I am not very good at listening.” Wit bent the brow of Miss DeLoughrey-Jung as she added, softly, “as you well know.”</p><p>Attending the remains of the injury report, an inquiry regarding witnesses induced Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s vacillation. This, manifest in a furtive expression, was not that of considering but reluctance; a disinclination to make culpable those of the cannery, who might’ve dissuaded her from such crime as taken, but had not. There were avenues of truth open to Reed—the schedule would clarify it—yet he chose to accept her answer, finding, amidst foreign Byzantium customs and faithless-like willfulness, something he understood: Reed found her wish to protect Edgewater’s workers.</p><p>“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I must return to my office.”</p><p>As he stood, so did she. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s injured wrist pressed against her bosom.</p><p>“I apologize, again, Mister Tobson. For what I’ve done. For the position I’ve put you in, and for what penalties the cannery may incur on my behalf. I will not do so again.”</p><p>Her voice had deepened such once before; to a profoundness of feeling, its well fed by streams of plainspoken sincerity, and not a little alarm. It caused Reed to look back. This woman sounded a stranger; yet, comprehension came. Miss DeLoughrey-Jung’s predictable independence and buoyancy accompanied that sing-song tone, which bore attractions as were befitting an advertisement: flair, charm, and desirability. It was the voice of <em> Spacer’s Voice 2342-2344</em>, the official company voice during those years, and certainly the cadence which Reed knew he ought to prefer. It was no less a company uniform than what he wore, and this harder, plain voice, only heard in moments of abashment, was her true voice.</p><p>In truth, Reed could not say he liked it any less.</p><p>In his office, the complete accident report lay before him. A pang of pity for the injured party—both Miss DeLoughrey-Jung, and the cannery at large, once the fines were levied—urged him to distraction, causing a misfile, and for the incident to go unknown.</p>
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